Dead
by closetfandom
Summary: Post Reichenbach feels   my first fanfic.  Stars with John after the fall then skips to 3 years later...exploring character emotions and relationships...and a little bit of angst eventually
1. Chapter 1

Dead.

His best friend was dead. He watched it happen. He felt for a pulse himself. He saw the blood and gore. He saw the once intensely intelligent, steel grey eyes go dark and cold. Even seeing this with his own eyes and feeling with his own hands, John Watson could not believe that Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Somewhere down deep within himself, John knew where the ill-fated phone conversation would lead once he saw his friend perched on the roof-top.

"I'm a fake."

John didn't believe it.

"I researched you."

John would NEVER believe it. He KNEW Sherlock Holmes, perhaps better than Sherlock himself.

"Just one more miracle, for me. Don't be dead."

John reached out, only find cold stone beneath his fingers. He knew the odds were against him, but he hoped beyond hope that this last request would be fulfilled.

Life went on, slowly but surely. Part of John was a little surprised London did come to a grinding halt without Sherlock Holmes breathing life into it.

It took him a full month to return to Baker Street as a full-time resident. He had come for some of his things here and there. He had tried to spend the night a few times at the beginning, but ended up going to a pub to get away from the quiet. From the loneliness.

Mrs. Hudson would come in and dust and clean up a bit. She and John had decided to leave Sherlock's equipment in the boxes in his room for the time being. John didn't want to admit to Mrs. Hudson that he secretly expected the consulting deceptive to come sweeping in someday.

Mycroft made sure the rent was paid and even arranged for a hotel for John until he felt comfortable calling 221B his official residence again. John was grateful, but was still resentful in the hand Mycroft had (even if it was not truly intentional) in Sherlock's fall.

The papers were ferocious at first. John would tell himself that's why he was avoiding his flat with a vengeance. Every journalist, news reporter, fans, and even critics were chomping at the bit to get John's statement on the whole scandal. He completely avoided Baker Street when it was like this. The crowd outside 221B began to dwindle as the days passed by. Three weeks after the fall, there was not a press agent to be found.

Three years later...

John's life was had found its' way back to normalcy. He went to work, ate, slept, visited with Mrs. Hudson, and got a weekly check from Mycroft (John still had not forgiven him completely, but tolerated the man). John was getting back in the dating scene and had a very promising prospect that evening. A clever woman named, Mary. John had worked up the courage to ask her dinner after a few weeks of flirting.

John emerged from the tube station (gone were the days of zipping about in black cabs) and approached his flat. As soon as he stepped inside the threshold he sensed that something was different. It was familiar, like a favorite smell from childhood long forgotten with passage of time. He heard the sound of a violin. This wasn't too strange for him. He had heard this sound often enough making his heart leap in his chest. He would ascend the stairs only to realize it was his imagination. As he done for the past year, he brushed it and this strange sensation off as his mind playing tricks on him.

_He is gone! Sherlock is GONE!_ He told himself. It had become his mantra. He had clung to his hope that Sherlock would work his miracle and return for so long. People and circumstances had all but beat it out of him. He was constantly confronted with pain and disappointment. His therapist all but laughed at his confession that he believed Sherlock would come back.

If he were to be honest with himself...he still believed it. It was much easier to pretend and accept what everyone else told him to be true. A coping mechanism, if he were to analyze himself. Eventually this became part of his normal.

He trudged up the stairs, thoughts on his date. _What should I wear? Should I really be taking her out? What does she see in me? _He barely noticed that the music was getting louder and louder each step he took.

He walked into the flat and, as always, went into the kitchen to set the kettle to boil. He turned to face the sitting room and, for the first time, recognized another presence in the room.

The tall silhouette was outlined by the window he stood in front of. Long and lean with a mess of dark hair. Long limbs flourishing to finish the Bach melody he had been playing. The figure turned to face John. Warm baritone tones met John's ears with, "My dear, John."

John stared. Slowly the vision before him (it had to be fiction) started to swirl into a cloud of grey. He tried to take a step, but found his legs were no longer made of bone and muscle, but some sort of soft, jelly-like material. He noticed this mirage had began with a smile, but for some reason its' features were turning into a look of concern. John was feeling gravity's force pulling him downward, but was not sure why. He felt thin, but strong fingers grip him arms. He thought he heard his name in that same wonderful voice, but could not be certain as his world slipped into blackness.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 -

Silence and dark. Not the inky-blackness that one might associate with the dead of night, but dim. More like early evening, the sun almost setting.

John was aware he was lying on the couch in the sitting room. He kept his eyes closed and took a moment to clear his foggy mind.

_Must have fallen asleep on the sofa_. John thought to himself. That sounded reasonable enough, but he could not help but think he was missing something. There was something different.

Then he heard a rustling noise beside him. Someone was sitting on the coffee table very near him. John took a deep breath through his nose. A myriad of familiar smells brought him back to the reality that hit him not ten minutes ago. Faint chemicals, a hint of cigarettes, tea, and something that was definitely..._Sherlock._

John's eyes fluttered at first, trying to put his befuddled mind at ease. A long, pale face took up most of his vision, worry etched in every crevice. Thin fingers held at a triangle at the man's chin. A dark mess of curls a halo above this long lost face.

John bolted up right, almost colliding with his once dead flatmate.

"SHERLOCK!" John all but yelled.

"John," Sherlock breathed as the worry left his face.

"Sherlock..." strained with emotion, hands curling in on themselves.

"A thousand apologies, John. I had no idea you would be so affected."

John straightened and moved his arm behind his torso. Allowing all his tenseness to find a home in his right arm, he punched Sherlock will all his might. Sherlock let out a loud grunt as fist met cheek. Sherlock was thrown back and tumbled backward off the coffee table.

John stood, both hands still held in tight fists. Holding stock still, so much a soldier at attention. Eye closed tight.

"Sherlock, bloody, Holmes...What. The. Hell." John's tone was even and controlled.

Sherlock had a hand on his now sore cheek. The other arm bent at the elbow propping up his upper body. He looked at John, taking in all the information he could from his remarkable senses. Sherlock gracefully found his way to his feet and let his hands fall to his side. He kept his head bowed slightly as he tried to deduce the right words.

"John," he said in barely a whisper and closing his own eyes. "I...I...I'm..." His unfinished statement hung in the air as John closed the gap between them. Sherlock looked down in surprise to find the smaller man pressed against him, John's cheek against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around him. Sherlock was confused and was unsure of his next move, but instinctively found his own arms wrapping around his friend. Sherlock hid his face in the short blond pillow beneath him.

They stayed like that for an immeasurable amount of time. They both released their grip at the same moment. John took a step back and turned away, wiping a few defiant tears from his eyes.

"John," Sherlock tried again, "I am sorry."

John looked up at him. "I knew it." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his statement.

"I knew you were alive."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Six months. It had been six months since Sherlock Holmes had reappeared into his life. John was grateful that his friend had come back from the dead. Well, technically, he had never died, but for THREE YEARS John had believed it. John had mourned the loss of his friend, visited the tombstone, and beat his self-conscience to a pulp for his inability to stop his friend from jumping off that damned roof.

John now knew the truth. Sherlock had faked his death in order to keep John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson safe. Moriarty was dead by his own reptilian hand. Unfortunately, this left a large web of sinister underlings who still posed a threat to Sherlock's friends. Mainly, John. Sherlock, being Sherlock, went off on his own to take them down.

Of course John was delighted to have his friend back and in relatively good health. Relative in the sense that Sherlock only had some bumps and bruises on his return, if not a few more battle scars. Sherlock had still not opened up on the origin of many of those scars. He had told John the 'why' and the 'where' of his ordeal of three years, but had been very vague on the precise "what".

Despite their rather emotional reunion, Sherlock had become very distant quite quickly. His usual cold and uncaring nature had returned tenfold. There were scarce moments of…fondness?...normalcy?...just like old times?...peppered in between the downright frigid atmosphere Sherlock was projecting. It was maddening at times. John wanted nothing more than to help his friend heal from whatever he had to endure while he was away. Every time John tried, he was met with a brick wall of indifference. John wondered if Sherlock cared at all, if the whole 'saving my friends' episode had been some sort of one-off thing. He felt guilty when he had these thoughts, but Sherlock was just a mysterious as he had ever been.

Really, John was just happy to have his friend back in his life. Sherlock's moods weren't anything new to him. He could handle it. Well, most of the time. So far, Sherlock was at his worst when John had a date with Mary.

Mary. Sweet, patient, clever Mary. She took being stood-up on their first date with surprising grace and understanding. John at least had a very good excuse; it isn't everyday your dead best friend comes back to life. John was a bit on the distracted side. Mary was very forgiving when John called her the next day. She even obliged John a second chance. John took her out a few weeks later. (He waited until the media circus of Sherlock's return had somewhat died down.) They had been dating ever since.

This is why John finds himself contemplating his life in the back seat of a cab.

He and Mary had been in the middle of a lovely dinner and John had some romantic plans mapped out for the rest of the evening. As always, a single text from Sherlock changes John's world on dime.

**Clapham South. Dalton House. Urgent. –SH**

John looks at the message and sighs. Mary doesn't need to ask.

"Go ahead," she sighed. "You'll worry all night if you don't."

John grinned at her sheepishly. "You know me too well."

Mary nodded and waved him away. John gave her a quick kiss and left her some cash as he pulled on his coat.

She won't put up with this forever. She will eventually tire of Sherlock demanding my attention at any given moment. John stares out as London passes by the windows of the cab. He's not sure where they are headed, but it doesn't look like the friendliest part of town.

I wonder if he is in some sort of trouble this time, or if he just needs me to hold his phone. Sherlock was notorious for misusing the word 'urgent'. It was impossible to tell if Sherlock was in mortal danger or just needed John to do some sort of menial task that was far below the efforts of the consulting detective. John was about to find out.

"We're here, mate."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: **I've got the next couple of chapters mapped out, so I should be able to post the next very soon.

Thank you all for the favorites and the follow. Reviews are also helpful! This is my first fic of any sort, so I am eager to get some feedback! :)

* * *

><p>Chapter 4<p>

John paid the cabbie and took in his surroundings.

"Alright, Sherlock. Where are you?" John muttered to himself.

"Right here, John."

John jumped and was able to stifle the yelp that threatened to erupt from his throat.

"Sherlock! Jesus, you scared me!" Sherlock had silently appeared behind John as the cab pulled away.

"Not my intentions, John, but amusing nonetheless." Sherlock flashed a quick crooked grin as he glanced at his friend.

John couldn't help but chuckle softly. It was moments like this that made John's heart swell. It was so much like how they were before the fall.

"Alright, I'm here. You said it was urgent."

"Indeed. Follow me."

Sherlock led John through an alley and down two more streets.

"We're here, John," Sherlock whispered.

John looked up at the familiar structure in front of him.

Taking a cue from the detective, John kept his voice low. "Sherlock, isn't this Mr. Garrideb's place? We were just here two days ago. Why didn't we just take the cab straight here?"

Sherlock shot John a look that was screaming 'Obvious!' so loudly that John could almost hear his friend saying it. Sherlock had not wanted the cab to attract attention apparently.

As much as John wanted to roll his eyes and huff at the usual antics of his colleague, he couldn't help but smile and feel a twinge of fondness. He was still finding it such a thrill just to be around Sherlock again, much less finding his way back to 'working' with Sherlock on cases.

Sherlock darted to the side of the house and started working on a partially opened window. Before John could even question Sherlock further, the tall man disappeared inside the house.

"Sherlock!" John whispered loudly. Any fondness lingering in his system was quickly replaced by annoyance. Grumbling quietly, John hoisted himself up to the window and climbed in as carefully as he could.

"Sherlock!" John whispered again.

A hand clamped around his mouth while another wrapped around is right shoulder.

"John...shh!" Sherlock breathed into his ear. "We have to be quiet. Mr. Garrideb's away to Birmingham, if you recall. We are waiting to see if 'the other Mr. Garrideb' comes around. Here is your revolver."

With that, Sherlock released John and pressed the cool metal into John's left hand.

RIGHT! Johns memory started to catch up with the present. Sherlock had shot holes through every one of John Garrideb's story about needing other Garridebs to claim his American millions. Mr Nathan Garrideb, the owner of the house in which they were currently standing, was and odd old man with a museum for a house. Not that it was particularly large, but that it held so many artifacts and trinkets from the owner's many collections. The younger Mr. Garrideb had sent the elder off on a mission to find the third Garrideb.

Sherlock and John kept their backs to the wall. It did not take long for an eerie creaking noise to fill the room. In the dim evening light, John could just make out a strange movement on the floor. Something large and flat was rising up in the air on a hinge of some sort. 'AH! A Trapdoor!'

John could make out the silhouette of a figure emerging from the inky black hole in the floor. The dark shape moved around the open trapdoor and shut it with a bang. Sherlock took this opportunity to make his move.

"Ah, Mr. Evans, I presume. So nice of you to join us."

The man, Evans?, froze and slowly turned to face the pair. John caught sight of a glint of something metallic.

A wave of panic swept through John. No! No! NO! I just got him back and this stupid git isn't taking him away from me.

Instinctively, John lunged for the gun while simultaneously shouting, "Sherlock! He's armed!"

There was a flash. A loud bang. And pain.

John was caught up in the momentum of his efforts of getting to the villain when the bullet spun him off-course. Gravity was taking over as side of his head collided with a rather thick and sturdy work desk.

John heard a thunderous growl from behind him as he fought to keep conscience before he hit the ground.


End file.
